The Faith Of A Long-Distance Runner Marathon Man

Mile 12. The 2017 Boston marathon.

- Meb Keflezighi

I was cruising, a mile short of the halfway point in one of the most prestigious races on the planet. Besides the Olympics, it doesn’t get any bigger. For once I’d done everything right. The diet. The training. My mental and spiritual focus.

The fans along the tree-lined streets of Wellesley, Massachusetts, were cheering like crazy: “Let’s go, Meb!” “USA! USA!” I’m no longer surprised at people recognizing me. I’d run marathons since 2002, the only runner to have finished first in New York and Boston and medal at the Olympics.

No American man had won here in more than three decades before I crossed the finish line in 2014, the first Boston Marathon after the horrific bombings. A few days before the race, I met the Richard family, who had lost their eight-year-old son. Their strength inspired me. Even for someone used to the spotlight, it was an unforgettable experience. God’s hand had surely been working through me.

Now I was back. At 41, I was way older than the other elites. Still, a top-three finish seemed possible. I was firing on all cylinders, almost to Wellesley College, where the students mass along the route, hollering like mad— the Scream Tunnel, it’s called.

Just before a little hill, the runners ahead of me began to pick up the pace. No problem. I pumped my legs harder. But the other runners pulled farther away. Pick it up. I had nothing. There was no soreness. No tightness. My quads were just dead. Like a car stuck in second gear.